Handwritten
by casssadaga
Summary: After the tragic death of his friend Marco, Jean Kirschtein is left completely devastated...until he learns Marco wrote him letters - letters that hold all of his last words and final wishes. Oh, and this girl? Marco left her a letter, too - a letter with more than just a final wish. Jean/Sasha AU, rating subject to change. Originally titled, "Black Cadillacs".
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, lovely humans!**

**Cass** here, with my new (and first _Shingeki no Kyojin_) fanfic! This one is a new story starring my latest OTP obsession, Jean Kirschtein and Sasha Braus. This happens to be a rather rough draft that I hammered out in less than 24 hours (I suppose being an English major in college certainly had its benefits), so I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors.

Constructive criticism is certainly welcome, but I would like to clarify that I am only doing this for fun - as a hobby of sorts. I'm attempting to keep my brain functioning and trying to improve my writing one baby step at a time. Practice makes perfect, after all! I should also note that this is an AU fic (which I tried desperately to avoid). I will, at a later date, be posting a multi-chapter story with this pairing in their actual Universe at a later date. I have the majority of it typed up - just hit a creative snag and out popped this one instead! Please see the end for any additional notes, I promise I'll stop prattling on now.

Without further ado, here is **Black Cadillacs**!

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any property or rights to Shingeki no Kyojin. This is the sole intellectual property of Hajime Isayama.

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It rained. It had rained all night, well into the morning, and continued throughout the service. It had rained during the fucking service, and now at the grave site, the clouds showed no signs of stopping. Jean Kirschtein cursed silently as a drop of water hit his obnoxiously broad shoulders. There must be a small puncture somewhere on this thing, the young man grumbled as another few drops began to fall in silent succession. The tarp had been stretched over the site after a slight window of opportunity during the stormed out service, but there hadn't been another break in the weather since. It wasn't as if the tarp really helped at this point anyway; as one of six pallbearers, Jean was required to abandon his umbrella en route to the grave in favor of hoisting the casket. They had carried the damn thing outside through the ribbon-like path that swam through glossy headstones and weeping willow trees, minding their step and their slippery grip on the polished handles. Sure, there had been ushers to come and hold umbrellas over the pallbearers heads, but it had done little to shelter the men, and Jean found himself growing more and more irritated by the water seeping in through his thick jacket and down into his bones. Thankfully the graveyard itself hadn't flooded as grandly as the roads leading to the church had, and that was the only silver lining Jean could see in this entire situation. Sadness stuck to every inch of the air, clung to every soaked tree, and for a moment the young man thought he was going to faint from its congestive presence. It only took a moment for Jean to pale as he glanced over at the church and its small parking lot, thinking of what his car must look like amidst the rushing waters, beginning to angrily chastise himself for buying such a low-lying, ostentatious vehicle instead of something more sturdy and practical…like a Jeep.

They had begun positioning the casket above the moistened soil. There had been talk before the service began that morning about stalling and waiting a few days for the ground to dry out, but the invitations had been sent out, and the ground probably would take more than just a few days. There had even been talk of cremating the body beforehand but Jean had fought voraciously against the idea of cremation,

"Marco wanted to be buried," he lashed out, "he said so. He told me himself – Marco wanted to be buried in a graveyard and we're going to bury him there. End of fucking discussion."

That was that; what Marco had wished, Marco had received. Jean felt the familiar pooling of claustrophobic hurt deep in his throat and chest. Marco had wanted a lot of things – things Jean couldn't have provided during their friendship, and definitely couldn't provide during his hospitalization. They hadn't been a match for blood type, and even if they had, Marco's body had wasted away so much from the crash that even had he received enough blood, even if he had woken up from the coma and gained his senses, they didn't even know if he would be the same Marco. He wasn't even the same Marco during those last few weeks – sunken cheeks and bruised eyes, cuts and internal bleeding that never stopped.

"You need to fight," Jean remembered every single detail of the day he last visited his friend; "You need to fight, Marco – for your parents, for me, for our friends." He had been sitting in the uncomfortably flat chair next to the young man's bedside, curtains opened slightly to filter sunlight through. It was unnaturally cold in the room, Jean recalled wishing to open the window and allow some fresh air through, but the hospital was a cold, distant place like that. Every square inch of Marco's room was full of blooming flowers, but the young man remained shriveled, dying, losing breath every second whilst the flowers thrived on filtered sunlight and water.

"I'm tired," Jean looked over to his friend, picturing Marco's soft, wan smile, "I'm tired and nothing else can help. You don't deserve to be the one in this fucking bed, I do."

Marco was pallid, so drained of colour that even his freckles had faded into watery puddles on the bridge of his nose and cheeks. The face of his friend was so swollen that Jean had hardly recognized him when he had first come to the hospital to visit. They had shaved his head, his blue-black hair gone just like that, and now a large, gruesome scar caked in dried blood snaked its way across his crown. Jean had joked that he looked similar to Connie when they first shaved off their friend's hair during their sophomore year of college, hoping for at least a twitch of his lips, a shift in his facial features, but nothing came to fruition.

"You deserve to live," Jean silently exhaled before gathering his things and exiting the room, turning around one more time to see if there had been a change, but when he looked he only saw how deep the shadows had filled in around Marco's face, the sun behind his profile setting.

That had been two weeks ago. Two weeks before the time of death and two weeks before the obituary notice and two weeks before this blasted service and this rain and this sadness. Jean just wanted to fucking go home – he had work the next day, and work didn't stop for death or for mourning. Work didn't stop for anyone, especially in Jean's profession, and there was no way to appeal to get an extension on his next article when he had already pushed it ahead twice already.

Words were being spoken, and the thunderous pour of rain had begun to subside just enough that the priest's voice could be heard. Jean attempted to focus on every single inch of that casket and its polished wood – the way it mirrored the milky white of the tarp as it clashed against the dark clothes of the funeral procession, any small detail that the young man could focus on meant another moment without crying. Jean had cried all of the tears he had to cry before this day, but how did it feel like his sore eyes had more to give? Blinking away the tears, he glanced up at the sallow faces across from him. Friends, family, co-workers, an ex-girlfriend or two, Marco's nurses – a majority of the people who had attended the actual service had left, but there still was easily a dozen or more bodies here crowding around, watching a deeply loved person descend.

A few words were spoken, soil was thrown, a prayer was whispered through hush voices, and that was that. The rain had finally stopped ironically, small drops pattering against the tarp and dribbling off of its edges as the congested crowd parted their ways, some holding hands and dabbing at eye corners with dilapidated tissues, others wandering off deeper into the cemetery with their umbrellas still perched despite the clear air.

There was a tap on his back, and Jean turned to see Connie's face.

Connie Springer had grown up – they all had – but Jean hadn't seen him in what seemed like decades, though it had only been a few years since they graduated with their bachelor's degrees. Connie had approached him when he had landed in the city a week prior to help with the planning and to offer his condolences to the family and friends. Their entire friend group had attempted to assemble, but there had obviously been conflicts. Despite all graduating from the same high school, and half of them from the same University, people had moved away, had started new lives and families – hell, some of them were only reachable by way of e-mail or air mail due to traveling. Connie had been one of the few that could actually attend, but he was also the only one who had kept in contact with Marco, despite moving across the country to the west coast and beginning medical school. Jean knew the two corresponded through video calls once in a while as well as social media updates and text messages from time to time. Jean had become more or less of a hermit since he first began working for the local newspaper, and now that he was running for editor, the pressure had been unreal. He also probably wasn't going to get the position now, especially with pushing back this story so far. Whatever, it didn't matter anymore – he had wanted to be an actual writer, photojournalist on the side, and definitely did not want to be stuck writing empty article after article for the local paper. Editor could be pushed back…maybe even erased, at this point.

"It was a really nice service," Connie remarked, withdrawing a cigarette from his pants pocket. Jean eyed it incredulously. Since he had been back home, Jean had seen the young man smoke nearly three packs. What kind of future doctor smokes fucking CIGARETTES?

'_If you have to ask that question,'_ Connie had replied when he first took out the pack,_ 'you've clearly never been to med school.'_

Connie ignored Jean's stare at the cigarette and instead inhaled. The cherry glowed, emitting a warm red and smoke lifted, swimming through the sky like a spirit. How fitting for a graveyard. The two young men remained quiet as Connie smoked, Jean preferring to hold his tongue for once in his life in favor of staring at the cemetery's nauseatingly green grass. It was almost alien, as if from another world, and a strong smell rose from it.

"Marco would have really liked it," Connie said finally, stabbing out his cigarette butt into the wet earth and pitching it back into the carton. For whatever reason, he never threw them on the ground, but instead held onto the pungent leftovers to throw away when they were closer to a trash bin.

"Yeah," Jean breathed in the cool air, "yeah, he would've." There was something about using the past tense that brought about a stirring of sadness in Jean.

"So, are you still okay for going to the wake?" Connie shoved his hands into his pants pockets and flashed his eyes up at Jean. Marco's parents had decided to invite close friends and family over to their house for refreshments after the service, but Jean hadn't decided if he was really going to go. He felt that to a point he really should – Marco's mom was still reeling from the death, his dad seemed as stoic and untouched as ever. Jean's parents had moved away a year or so prior, further north to where the mountains met the sea, and they lived in a small gated community with a house, a car, a picket fence, and a small plot of grass in the front and in the back.

"I suppose," Jean almost felt like asking Connie for a cigarette – he had actually quit himself once college was over and Marco was diagnosed, even though it hadn't been anything attributed to cigarettes, "Honestly I just want to go home and forget this stupid day ever happened but it'd be a bit too selfish on my behalf."

Connie nodded.

"Do you need a ride there?" Jean asked his friend and the young man, in turn, shook his head.

"Nah, I came in my parent's car. I think I remember the way, if not I've brought a GPS just in case. It's still the same address…right?"

Jean nodded, and Connie cleared his throat after a beat of silence.

"Okay. Well, I'm going to head over now, before this rain decides to randomly pick up again." He turned around, waving though Jean couldn't see. He could hear his footsteps though, the dirt sloshed underneath and Jean wished he could just sink deeper and deeper into its packed soil until he choked on roots and found some rest himself.

.

Time passed. Jean watched the sun break through the parting clouds and while it warmed the air, there was still a bite of cold. Ah, that must be it. A front had swept through and Jean hadn't even noticed. Who watches the weather anyway? Who even has a television? Who forks over money for cable? There were so many more important things for money to go towards than reruns of sitcoms Jean never cared for.

The young man was so engrossed in thought, he hadn't even heard the quiet steps approaching him from behind until a voice had called out and he realized it was directed towards him.

"Excuse me?"

Spinning to his left, Jean saw a girl…woman? Young adult…young adult female…that was the proper way to describe her, he decided.

When he didn't respond, she waved her hand in front of his face rapidly.

"Excuse me? Hello? I'm here for a…a funeral service…for Marco. Marco Bodt?" Jean blinked at her jarred at the hand motions and he flung himself backwards a step. She was wearing dark denim pants, a white v-neck, and a large, brown leather jacket – definitely not suitable funeral attire. Not to mention the girl appeared soaked through to the bone.

"You've missed the service; it's been over for several hours." What nerve this girl had.

In response, her bottom lip quivered slightly. Her hair was thick, almost too thick, and a deep, voluminous red-brown, swept up into a pony tail with some wet, matted bangs framing her face. There was uneasiness to her character and dark circles that glowed against her skin – it looked as if she had been traveling.

"R-really? Several hours?" The girl rubbed her eyes, "I'm so sorry I've disturbed you; but…are you certain of this?" Her words fell out slowly, and she seemed to be planning them out before speaking.

"I was there. I essentially planned the service, trust me, I'm sure." Jean reached into his blazer pocket to retrieve the crumpled program he had folded up prior to carrying the casket.

The girl received the booklet gingerly, her eyes lighting up,

"So, you must be – Jean?" She smiled and Jean felt himself flush, more from annoyance than from anything else.

"Yes." This was starting to gnaw on his nerves, "You can keep the program. I have more in my car. I'm sorry you missed the service. His grave site is back behind me a few feet – unmarked – if you'd like to pay your respects there."

The young man began to walk away, but the girl had caught up to him and appeared in front of his line of vision again. Jean stalled as she gripped his shoulder and sneezed violently, leaning her head down as to not sneeze directly onto Jean's clothes or near his face, covering her mouth and nose with the program. When she turned back around, tears were pooling in her eyes. She was so close to him now that he could see that she had very faint freckles littered across the tip and curve of her nose. While she wasn't jarringly gorgeous, she was a pretty girl in a soft way – her corners were all smooth, much like an oil painting.

"Could…do…do you believe that…" She seemed superiorly troubled and while his nerves were on fire, Jean held his tongue once more and instead retrieved a tissue from a small pack in one of his pants pockets to offer the girl.

"Thank-you so much, I'm so grateful." The girl smiled towards him and sneezed again into the tissue before rubbing it over her eyes. "I'm sorry, I know this is forward, but could you possibly give me a ride into the city? I walked nearly the entire way here and I really don't want to have to do that again."

God fucking damnit. There was always a catch with girls, wasn't there? Her honeyed eyes gazed up at his, and Jean felt too guilty to look away from them. They bore into him and her eyelashes, slick with rain water, were unfavorably hypnotizing.

"Sure," Jean sighed and nodded up towards the church and where his car was parked (and hopefully still intact), "follow me."

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They sat silently in Jean's car as he drove down the road, passing tree after tree. Albeit a little slow to start from the water, the engine was still quiet and there didn't seem to be any major signs of damage, so at least one thing was going well today. The city was a short drive from the country, but it was quickly becoming darker and darker the further they drove, which was becoming worrisome. It wasn't normal for Jean to do favours like this one, but what harm could a girl do to him? She was of average height, but he easily had four inches, maybe more, over her, and despite the solid structure of her body, he clearly had muscle power over her form.

"So," Jean finally felt like talking, "you never told me your name."

The girl had been quiet since they got in his car, only laughing (and eventually sneezing) when they had reached the parking lot and Jean began complaining out loud about the rain water, studying his tires and bumpers for any damage to the paint or body work. Other than that she had opted to stare out quietly at the passing foliage.

"I'm so sorry, how rude of me," she turned to look at him with a smile, "my name is Sasha."

"'Sasha'," the name didn't ring a bell, "so, how did you know Marco?"

Her cheeks flushed slightly, Jean could see the heat pooling and almost slammed his head into his steering wheel. Had Marco…had Marco had a girlfriend? Or was this just some psycho girl who had been obsessed with him? There was no way…Marco hadn't had a girlfriend since he'd broken up with his last one a year or so ago.

"We…" her voice trailed off, "we are, were, friends. Coworkers, I suppose. We worked at the same restaurant a few years ago when I lived here in the city."

Jean tried to recall just where it was they may have worked together. Marco was a fan of the odd job, consistently bouncing around from place to place. In college he had studied Political Science, attempting to go to law school or possibly even government, but had decidedly taken a few years off in order to save up money before even trying to pay for law school. Sure, his parents had cash – but Marco had wanted to at least begin a stable foundation for what he was hoping to be a…future.

"Which one?"

"'Scouts', it was just a regular old bar and grill, he wasn't there too long and by the time I moved away he had already left," the girl turned our gaze onto Jean, "but he did mention you. He mentioned you…quite a bit, actually."

"You recognized me pretty fast so I did gather that."

"Well, not too many males have your looks."

"Meaning?"

"Your hair I suppose, it's very…different, and your face is rather angular and long," Jean's ears heated and were probably bright pink right about now. He had always been rather self-conscious about his facial features, but…

"Hey!" He barked, his tendons yellowing as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, "my face is NOT – "

"It's a compliment," Sasha interrupted him before a gasket could blow, "Marco described you accurately – you're just as attractive as he made you out to be."

This time, Jean's ears heated pink for a different reason and he huffed instead of raising his voice. Oh. Well. That…that was different.

"You mean Marco thought I was attractive, or that you thought I was attractive from what he told you?" The words were out before Jean could stop them, but he rarely thought before he could speak, and it was a legitimate question that Jean was almost frightened to hear the answer to.

"Both," Sasha quipped, flashing a rather dazzling smile at the young man, "how's that for an answer?"

Jean didn't reply and instead began to feel a greater heat stirring. Suddenly this car was too small and this girl was too strange and this entire situation was slowly spiraling out of absolute control. It was nice to take his mind off of the sadness, but he only found himself feeling claustrophobic and angry at himself for asking such a question when he really hadn't desired the answer as much as he thought he had.

They sat in silence until the familiar flickering of city lights began to engulf them, shadows dancing along the dashboard and seats, welcoming them into a warmer, drier atmosphere. It was then that Jean realized, much to his chagrin, that he had no idea where this girl was supposed to be dropped off to, and that he had also missed the wake. It was unintentional but completely what he had wanted to do after Connie had asked him if he was actually going or not. Whoops. He'd apologize to his old friend later, maybe he should message him and go get a couple of beers or something…

"You can just pull over wherever," Sasha broke his thought process, unbuckling her seatbelt as a ringing alarm began to tone, signaling that something was obviously wrong, "just pull to the side and I can get out. Thank-you so much for the ride, Jean."

The young man turned on his blinker, pulling off into a small niche in the sidewalk and clicking open the passenger side door.

"No problem," he responded as polite as he could. "I'm sorry you missed the service."

Odd silence enveloped them once again, and Sasha loosened her grip on the doors handle, as if she was contemplating not getting out.

"I'm very sorry, Jean," she spoke finally, coughing slightly into a cupped palm, "really. Thank-you for the program and thank-you for the ride here." Her eyes turned to his and for a minute he actually thought she was going to try and kiss him.

She didn't.

Instead, Sasha rooted through the front pockets of her brown leather jacket, retrieving a phone and some waterlogged cards tied with a rubber band. After inspecting one from the center of her pack that simply had the edges wet and bent, she gave Jean the card and pressed a few buttons on her phone before tucking it back away.

"That's my card," she beamed at him, as if he needed assistance with figuring that out, "we should meet up sometime, get something to eat –maybe some tea. Talk about Marco, and…well. Either way, when you have a moment, please give me a call. My number's on there, below my name. I'm going to be in town for a few months."

With that, the weird girl exited the car and began walking towards the public transport tunnel, disappearing into the smoke and soot of the city all together. Jean stared at the card for a moment, memorizing her name and focusing on the number that rested below it. Hell, he half expected it to proclaim a profession such as 'medium' or 'spirit guide' but all it said was her name, number, and e-mail. Eventually, the young man just tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. Whatever. He'd keep it, but he wasn't going to contact her any time in the future. Some stories – like the one of Marco and his apparent kinship with this girl – seemed better off collecting dust on the shelf of an attic rafter.

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**Notes**:

Well, now that was fun! I feel I may have left a lot of information out, so I will acknowledge that the city they are in does not have a name, but it is on the Eastern Coast of...the United States? Possibly? All of the characters are in their early to mid-20's, and for now the fic is going to have a simple 'T' rating, but this will change in later chapters solely for when things start to get a little bit spicier, both in the plot and within the character relations.

Thank-you all greatly for reading! I hope I didn't bore you to death or disappoint you too greatly. I haven't written a creative story in a few years and I'm sure there were a lot of plot holes dancing around with bad sentence structure. Yikes.

Depending on the response I receive, I will decide whether to continue or not. I will more than likely continue regardless, simply because I'm having a blast writing this, but chapters will definitely appear more frequently if I see a positive response from readers and fans of SNK/AOT. Again, I hope you enjoyed it, and if you do have any personal questions you'd like to direct to me, please visit my tumblr link on my author's page.

Ta! x


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello**!

Thank-you so much for the wonderfully positive feedback :) I really, really appreciate it! Your reviews were so nice I started blushing, I'm so happy you've all enjoyed my first chapter! (And I totally agree - there needs to be more Jean x Sasha love out there!)

Here's Chapter 2, just as I promised. I'll include some more notes at the bottom if you want some of the air cleared!

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any property or rights to Shingeki no Kyojin. This is the sole intellectual property of Hajime Isayama.

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Jean stared at the card. The damned thing had rested on his bedside table for the past two weeks and he hadn't dared move it, as if touching the paper would bring upon a curse. Whomever that girl was, friend of Marco's or not, he wasn't fussing about calling or 'meeting up' with her. Now that the funeral was over and the people had left, the young man really didn't see the need in attempting to forge any sort of bond to a weirdo who wanted to dig everything right back up again.

Since Connie had left a week or so ago though, Jean had to admit things had gotten rather lonely. The young man really liked his free time off from the pressures of work and unwritten articles, but without Marco and the friends who gathered around the guy, there weren't really that many people to hang out with. People from Jean's work were always a given – he'd head out with them on Friday nights every now and again for a beer or two but his social life had become so lackluster since college he really wondered if some company wouldn't be too uncalled for…. Nah, he wasn't going to go out of his way to see this girl, no way – chances are she had already left the city. The funeral had been weeks ago, and Jean most definitely hadn't seen her around any of his old haunts (granted, as if a local pub, a coffee shop, and his office building were anything special).

"Whatever," he sighed, finally touching the card and crumpling it up into a neat, little ball, tossing it into his trash bin. The thick paper sailed and came to rest somewhere between last month's junk mail and this week's apartment newsletter.

It was Thursday, anyway. Jean had reached home about thirty minutes ago, having already submitted in the photographs he had taken for the Sunday column he was assisting with, and had gotten his next upcoming report to work on, due Tuesday. Thankfully everything Journalism had shifted to the digital age as of late, and Jean found his work being completed, edited, and published, at speeds he hadn't even expected while taking courses in University. Send out a few e-mails, clean-up some photographs at his desk, and that was all there was to it - Jean had finished his work for the day. Naturally, this all meant that by five o'clock in the afternoon, Jean was a free man to head home, grab some coffee, maybe even pleasure write for a bit. While he hadn't gotten the promotion he had so desired, the young man almost felt it had been a blessing – less work, less hassle.

Shrugging on a thick jacket, grabbing a knit cap and securing as his laptop, Jean slung his bag's straps through one arm and walked outside of his apartment building to the busy sidewalk. It was admittedly silly for him to have a car when you were mainly within walking distance of most things in the city, but it became crucial for carrying heavy camera equipment as well as when stories required the country roads, the suburbs, or the next town over.

'Or a funeral,' Jean mused to himself, passing the parking garage where his car quietly slept.

.

The coffee shop Jean happened to frequent was overrun by an angry mob of people, so after opting to try somewhere else, the young man had set out two more blocks further down from his usual spot. Crowds he didn't really mind as much, but when there weren't any available seats – that was when Jean knew better than to fight the throng of people. Coffee was coffee, it was usually brewed well enough from place to place, but it had helped that his usual café was a shorter walk.

The inside of his café in particular smelled blissful – cinnamon sugar, dough, and fresh brewed coffee, a welcome break from the groggy, fumed-laced outside air. There was a couple seated near the window, two girls, both immersed in different books. Another young man was sitting cross-legged on a loveseat in the center of the café, staring intently at a cell phone screen as if he was waiting for a phone call. After receiving his order, Jean sat down with his laptop at a corner table, a large book shelf looming beside him which provided a small degree of privacy.

As he typed, deleted, typed, and deleted some more, Jean grew increasingly agitated. Since Marco's death, he hadn't so much as made a dent in his story and it was becoming more and more obvious to the young man that whatever 'niche' he they had praised him for back in college writing workshops was nothing more than just an average talent for stringing words together. Ever since Marco left, ever since that funeral, all Jean wanted to write were all the stupid, empty words he couldn't say to anyone, words he didn't even want to say to himself. What the fuck was this he had written? What the fuck was any of it? Jean began hammering his keys, not even giving a shit if any of it made sense, just fragmented sentences with poorly constructed prose. It wasn't until a jarring noise originating from that couch guy broke his thoughts that Jean realized that his angry tirade had resulted in almost two whole pages of…something.

A figure approached the table as Jean began to read over what he had written,

"Would you like another cup of coffee?"

The young man looked over at his cup; unaware that he had even drank the stuff. What had he gotten again – an Americano? Maybe he shouldn't...at this rate, he probably wasn't going to sleep tonight if he drank too much more caffeine.

"Yeah, sure, okay." To hell with it. Jean picked up the cup to hand it to the waitress, only to stop midway as his eyes met hers. He slammed the cup back down on the counter, fingers locked tight around its base, "on second thought I'm all right, thanks." Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK. She hadn't noticed it was him, had she?

"Jean! Funny to see you here!" much to his absolute devastation the waitress sat down immediately across from him. Why the fuck had he not put his back on the chair? Why the fuck had he not sucked it up and gone to the other café? Why had he fucking bothered to leave the comfort of his own apartment? He had a coffee machine, right? Or…he at least had the funds to buy one. Note to self – look into purchasing a goddamn coffee machine.

"How have you been?" Sasha chirped happily as the young man, in turn, kept his eyes screwed on his computer scene.

"I've been fine." That was such a bold-faced lie, but the girl seemed dim enough that Jean was sure she wouldn't catch on.

"That's great! You had me a little worried at the funeral. I considered looking you up to give you a call, but figured that I'd eventually see you again sooner or later," the girl leaned dangerously forward, mindful of Jean's laptop, "So what are you working on? You were typing quite furiously for a bit there, I was almost scared to come over and check on you."

"Nothing," Jean exhaled, swiftly clicking 'save' on his document and gently closing the laptop.

Sasha sat back in the chair, creating some space between the two and eyeing the light red blush that began to creep up Jean's neck. Thankfully she couldn't see that his ears were the same colour underneath his knit cap.

"Pardon my intrusion, but…it sure didn't seem like 'nothing'." The young man stared at her, deadpan and already fed up with this exchange. In turn, Sasha smiled sweetly and stared right back. Dim maybe, but she was at least observant.

A beat of silence passed, broken for only a moment as the milk steamer released a hiss of angry air, and the two sat immobile with eyes locked. Something had to give, and it might as well be Jean. He shifted, grabbing his laptop's case and tucking it away.

"I was just writing a short story – like I said, 'nothing'."

Realizing that he was getting ready to take his leave, Sasha grasped the young man's wrist with just enough pressure to make him stop and look back at her. This was becoming a pattern between the two during their encounters Jean realized, but he didn't pull his arm away from her for one reason, and one reason only.

The girl wasn't crying, but her eyes spoke volumes. Worry, concern, emotions that masked her previously sunny demeanor – it was like being back on the cemetery grounds again. Jean was an asshole but he didn't have the energy, let alone the capacity in his guilty conscience right now, to cause a girl to cry from his abrasive actions. Sasha gently removed her grip when she realized the young man had halted for the time being, and placed her hand back in her lap.

"What's the short story about?"

"Well, it's…it's actually supposed to be a novel of sorts. I mean, it's going to be, eventually, I hope," nobody had asked him about any of his work in a while and to be honest, even he didn't think he knew what the story was really about. That question caught the young man off guard, and Sasha took his silence as utter annoyance.

"If you don't want to talk about it, I understand," Sasha stared down at the table top and swallowed hard, "but…I do have another favor to ask of you. I know I've already worn out my welcome with you by asking for a ride a few weeks back, but I desperately need to speak to you."

"We're speaking now, you know." Damn his tongue, it moved against his will.

"I know, but…I need to speak to you in a much more private setting."

"We were alone in my car a few weeks ago and you barely said a word," Jean sighed, "I don't think you can get much more private than that."

Sasha shifted uneasily in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

"Well, yes, I – I know. I meant to ask you then, tell you what I wanted to say, but I think that I was too scared. I wanted to wait; I didn't think you'd be able to take talking about him so soon. I still don't think you want to talk about him, but Marco really would have wanted me to –"

"Stop talking about him like that!" Jean hissed, "Stop talking about him like he's –"

"Like he's dead?" Sasha's eyes challenged him now, the worry and concern gone, "Like he's not coming back?"

"Like you knew him," Jean spat back, drawing the attention of the other patrons. The fucking NERVE of this girl! "Stop talking about him like you two were best friends. He never once mentioned you to me, to anyone!"

Jean snatched his bag from the floor and slung it over his back, knocking his empty cup to the ground. A few remaining drops speckled the hardwood floors, and Jean hoped that she would be the one that had to clean them up. He could feel the eyes of everyone in that café boring holes into his coat's back as he galloped out of the doorway, parting the sidewalk traffic and taking off.

"Jean, wait!"

Fuck no. Jean went from joggle to now full-on sprinting, the weight of his bag slapping against his side painfully with every stride. He must have run nearly three blocks until he stopped, panting, his throat aching in the cold air. She had to have given up and abandoned chasing after him – the girl was technically on the clock at work, wasn't she?

A hand grabbed his coat.

"Jean!" She shouted and pulled him backwards, causing the young man to stumble before he could begin running again. Fuck she was fast! How was that even possible?

"Jean," Sasha repeated, gulping air and clutching his coat sleeve, "Jean, I'm sorry. That...what I said was uncalled for – I acted out and I should not have. That's on me, and I am very sorry."

The boy's first instinct, like it had been in the café, was to wrench himself from her grip. Once she had released him, Jean lifted his hand to his cheek, only to draw back his hand and see a light sheen of water. He was crying – or, at least, something of the sort, as more tears began streaming down his face. Looking over at the girl as she steadied herself, Jean felt immensely helpless. Small, empty, like a child when they lose their parents in the grocery store or at an amusement park. How long had it been since he cried? Naturally he had cried when he learned the news of the death, he had cried when he read the obituaries in the paper, and he had cried that night after the funeral, curled like a dead leaf alone in his bed.

"Sasha," he spoke finally, "it's okay. I'm… I'm sorry too." He cupped his face in his palms, shoulders heaving. What sort of grown man cries in public? Sure, he had run far enough that there were only a few pedestrians instead of large groups, but it was still embarrassing. It took him a few moments to gain his composure, but only after wiping away the last of the tears did Jean finally turn and face Sasha. Much to his surprise, her eyes and nose were both rubbed bright red as if the girl had cried as well.

"It's all right," she replied sniffing, "I think that we both were at fault there with that little spectacle." Her voice shook slightly as a shiver crept its way across the surface of her skin. Sasha had probably rushed out behind him before grabbing a jacket or anything – the poor girl had to be freezing in her thin, white shirt and apron, despite wearing a pair of denim pants.

Jean nodded in agreement, digging his hands into his coat pockets. Obviously the next step would be the both of them agreeing to meet up and talk, but the young man's pride began to bubble back in the pit of his stomach, and he felt queasy. Just thinking about talking to someone other than Connie or his parents about Marco sent an overpowering wave of nausea wracking through his body. Jean had read an article a few weeks prior, in the early hours of the morning, illustrating that talking about the grief and the loss to someone helped a person move forward instead of falling back, but honestly, the young man really just didn't know how to go about doing this...this whole 'closure' thing.

"I have to get back to work," Sasha said finally, after the two hadn't spoken in almost a full minute, "but I would really like for us to meet up and talk sometime, if that's not too much to ask? I don't know about your schedule, but mine's pretty easygoing so…it's your call?" She looked up at him expectantly.

Ah, fuck. Okay. He had that story due Tuesday and chances are, the paper would need him sporadically during the week for photos and if the editor needed an extra hand. Saturdays were down days, as long as he submitted what he had to for the Sunday issue beforehand, that was an option…

"How's Saturday?" Sasha's eyes widened at his offer.

"Saturday's great!" she pulled out a pen and order pad from the apron's pocket and scribbled down a quick address, "I live on 118 West Hyannis street, apartment number 12. If you get lost just give me a call, my number's on the card I left with you."

She tore off the paper, handing it to Jean, and then was off running back towards the café, waving as she looked back at him. Jean just stared down at the paper, and instead of tucking it into the pocket of his coat, he held it firmly in his hand as he walked back to his apartment.

.

**Notes**:

(Psst...how'd you like that little horse joke I slipped in there? Where Jean 'galloped'? Wahahahaha.)

Thank-you all, again, for reading! If you did enjoy it, please feel free to leave a review, a favourite, or a follow! I tend to write these things sneakily during work (woops) or late at night, so I do apologize if any parts were choppy.

If you're a little bit confused about anything, such as the backstory of the characters included, don't worry - it will all come to light soon. :) Next chapter will more than likely be more from Sasha's POV, so that'll be fun. I know these 'filler-esque' chapters are a little bit slow, but things will pick up soon enough.

Next chapter should be out within the next two weeks - maybe sooner if I can get away with it.

Thank-you (for the millionth, billionth time)!

Ta! x


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys**!

Thank-you all for the sweet reviews/follows/favourites again! You're all so lovely. Here's good old Chapter 3. It's still a bit of a filler chapter, but I'm planning on writing (and publishing) a verrryyy lengthy (this one is very short and I'm very sorry), delicious Chapter 4 in a few days, so look out for that.

Enough of my blabbing, thank-you again for reading!

.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any property or rights to Shingeki no Kyojin. This is the sole intellectual property of Hajime Isayama.

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Sasha was nervous. No, nervous was an understatement – it wasn't even the correct word to use – she was absolutely petrified right now. For the past three hours, the poor girl had tied up her hair, only to pull it back out again, and repeat the process over and over. Her hair was going to start falling out in large clumps at this rate. What if Jean bailed? What if just didn't show up? What if she had to just cross her fingers, hoping she'd run into him again by chance? Sasha wasn't one for stalking, and while she was as stubborn as an untamed stallion, she definitely wasn't one to pressure someone to do something they didn't want to do. Funny enough, this had been the same inner battle she had fought with Marco so many months ago back at the hospital. It didn't even seem like it had been months ago, come to think of it…it could have been days ago. Hours, even.

The girl stopped in front of her living room mirror. Large and antique, it hung almost menacingly above a polished wood bureau, the first thing Sasha had bought (and subsequently lugged back to her apartment) when she realized that she was in this darn city for good. She had supplied a few other things; other antique finds from various consignment stores – a large grandfather clock, chairs for their kitchen table…there was probably a good reason as to why her roommates had begun holding their breath after asking Sasha what she did that day, if she'd bought anything new…

"You look sick," the girl exclaimed to her reflection, running her fingers down her pallid cheeks, pulling at the skin underneath her eyes, "should I shower? Should I put on some make-up? Do I even have the time to?" Her own eyes glared back at her.

No. Maybe? God, she didn't know. She had showered that morning after her shift at Orpheu, but now it seemed that she hadn't scrubbed hard enough – the light scent of flour and cinnamon still stuck to her hair, her waterproof mascara hadn't budged, and she swore someone in this apartment complex was brewing some ridiculously strong coffee. Luckily enough, Sasha had finished preparing dinner fifteen minutes ago and it was sitting quietly on the stove.

It had been two months; two months exactly, since she moved to this godforsaken city. Had Sasha wanted to leave her job – the best job she had landed EVER – and move across the country? Hell no. Just like everyone else plowing through their daily, dull lives, Sasha Katja Braus had aspirations and dreams and goals, but it seemed like they were just edging out further and further from her grasp every day.

And this fucking Jean guy...

Sasha sighed, leaning in towards her reflection so close that her nose pressed against the mirror. This FUCKING Jean guy. He was impossible. He was rude and solitary – a hermit. A recluse, even. Sasha was willing to bet the guy didn't even get out of bed some mornings, which was fine in terms of mourning and grief and all of that jazz, but she didn't have time for that bullshit. People die – people die and it sucks, but there's always time to move on.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling through her nose, Sasha repeated a slow mantra to herself,

"Be patient," she whispered, "be patient and understanding. He's going through a tough time. You know what that's like. You know where he's coming from. You've been there, too."

There was a loud, ferocious at the door, and Sasha shirked slightly. No. She wasn't ready. She hadn't even considered how to bring up the letter, and it really didn't have time to –

"SASHA!" another loud knock, "You there? It's JEAN!"

Darn. She really was banking on it being one of her roommates instead. On the bright side, this means that he didn't actually bail, but there was just something about this guy's presence that had her constantly on edge around him. Sasha had really tried her best to be charming and sweet, but he just stared back at her with these stupidly irritated eyes, as if he could see right through everything she was saying. After one last look in the mirror, Sasha realized she really should have put more effort into her appearance. Oh well. It's not like she was trying to impress any one these days.

Heart pounding, the girl opened the door to a very perturbed (what else was new?) looking Jean Kirschtein.

"It took me forever to find this place," the young man barked, walking past Sasha into the apartment. He shrugged off his coat and scarf, being mindful of the water that had seeped into them.

"You could have called me, that's why I gave you my number in the first place," Sasha huffed. She was really getting tired of this guys attitude. Hadn't it just been a few days ago he was crying to her about losing his best friend?

Jean's eyes widened slightly, and his ears flushed pink. He hastily averted her gaze with his own, choosing instead to focus on the hardwood floor.

"You lost my card, didn't you?"

"N-no…" It was just…somewhere in his trash can. Balled up. Jean had actually spent the greater part of last night searching for that stupid fucking card, and the greater part of today cursing himself as he navigated through the blocks looking for this damn apartment's address.

Sasha sighed.

"What matters is that you found it. Good timing too; I only just finished making dinner," the girl took Jean's wet things and put them in the coat closet to the left of the door, "you can put your shoes in here too, if you'd like."

Jean looked up at her from the floor.

"Dinner?"

Sasha blinked, wiping her wet hands on her pants, "Yes…I invited you over after all, it's impolite for me not to serve you some form of meal."

"You…cook?" Came the young man's incredulous reply as he bent to undo the laces of his shoes.

"Well, if I can't, then those seven years of experience sure were a waste of time," Sasha sauntered into her apartment's kitchen, opening the door and letting it swing back behind her. True, phrasing it that way made it seemed grander than it was – but she had been at culinary school for four years, worked her way up the ladder for three more…it really had taken some perseverance with someone who admittedly had the attention span of a goldfish.

She had hoped that for once she left the young man's jaw slack with her response, but when she came back out carrying a tray, he was sitting on one of her couches, flipping through her roommate's assorted magazines that they left on their shared coffee table.

"I never would have pegged you for a Cosmopolitan-gossip-magazine girl, but I guess everyone has their quirks, eh?" Jean stopped on a wildly highlighted page, "Also never pegged you for one who took tips from a magazine concerning 'Roleplay for Dummies'."

Sasha's cheeks burned (so maybe she had scoured a few of their older issues back when she first moved there…) and she slammed down the tray on the coffee table. She couldn't tell which part of this guy's personality she hated more – the reclusive jerk or _this_. Crying Jean, she deduced, was her personally preferred Jean.

"I hope you like Italian, " Sasha circled behind the young man and plucked the magazine from his hands, carrying it back into the kitchen only to emerge with two glasses and a bottle, "I also hope you like cheap white wine because it was all I could grab at the last-minute." She filled the two glasses and placed one in front of the young man.

While Jean absolutely hated to admit it – there was a ridiculously mouth-watering scent wafting from the steaming bowls that Sasha had set on the tray. They appeared to be filled with a creamy sauce and as Sasha handed him his bowl, he noted that the sauce was covering small balls of dough. While he sat on one couch, he saw Sasha sit down on a loveseat to his left, crossing her legs as she brought her own bowl into her lap.

"Uh, so, what is it?" the young man asked attempting to cover up the gurgling his stomach was making. When was the last time he had actually eaten something that wasn't take out or made in the microwave? Weeks? Months?

"Gnocchi in tomato cream sauce," the girl answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Of course. Naturally.

Jean quirked an eyebrow.

"Potato dumpling pasta," Sasha rolled her eyes, "they won't kill you, Jean. As long as you're not allergic to anything in particular, that is…?" This was probably been something the girl should have asked him sooner…

The young man shook his head. He wasn't allergic to anything, though he wasn't too particular about mushrooms or shellfish, and could do without certain fruits and spices, but for the most part he wasn't a picky eater, especially when prepared something presumably from scratch, that hopefully tasted as good as it smelled. Spearing one single dumpling with his fork, Jean lifted it up and gingerly blew away some of the steam before popping it into his mouth. Sasha was taking a gentle sip from her wine glass, but Jean could feel her eyes resting on him as he chewed.

Fuck, it actually tasted really good. The inside was light, not overly doughy or undercooked, and the sauce complemented the pasta well. It was fucking delicious, and before Jean realized it, he had polished the entire bowl. Hadn't he learned table manners at one point in his life? Apparently not, because damn was he hungry for more. The young man took a swig of his wine. It was actually nice for cheap wine, but then again, Jean didn't know much about spirits in general other than what he learned in college and during Friday nights with his coworkers at their pub.

"So, you liked it, I take it?" Sasha laughed nodding towards the empty bowl. She had eaten most of hers as well.

"It was pretty good," Jean had to admit that – it wasn't like he had forced those things down, "but I honestly didn't take you for a chef or anything of the sort. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," Sasha placed her bowl back on the coffee table, unfolding her legs so that she could grab a napkin from the tray. She reached over across to where Jean sat and he tensed for a moment as the girl wiped the napkin at the edge of his mouth. "Sorry, you had some sauce on your face."

_Weirdo_.

For all Jean knew, she had drugged him. He still didn't know anything about her, where she was from, how she knew Marco…

"Can you finally just tell me who you are?"

Sasha smiled slightly, but the smile was short-lived. The girl eventually diverted her gaze and sighed.

"Okay, okay," she stood up, and Jean could see she was moving very uneasily. Her hands were balled into fists and her sock-covered feet padded densely against the hardwood floors, "I guess I've played it up enough."

Jean watched as she approached a large mirror with a polished wood bureau beneath it. Sliding open one of the bureau's drawers, Sasha withdrew a white, plain letter envelope. She turned around and Jean noticed that her complexion had grown even paler – so pale that he could see the watery marks of light freckles dotting along her nose bridge. Her brown bangs tucked behind her ears, a few strands falling out to frame her face ever so gently.

"This letter is for you, Jean," Sasha handed the envelope over to him, and Jean took it, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's from Marco."

.

**Notes**:

WOAHHHH who saw THAT coming?

Everyone? ...Everyone?

Oh. Okay.

Next chapter will be up by the end of the week! It will also be much longer than these past ones - I realize that I haven't really been writing chapters with much length and that's annoying. Thank-you all for reading, sorry this was a little late. Your reviews are all so sweet, if you are enjoying the story so far don't be scared to drop a quick line! :)

**xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi, all**!

Quick notes before we begin: I've changed the story name to Handwritten, for pretty obvious reasons. The next chapter I'm going to change the rating higher because potty mouths and all. Thank-you all again for reading! I sincerely appreciate all of the positive feedback I received :) warms my heart and keeps me wanting to write!

Enjoy!

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The envelope in its bare splendor felt all too heavy in his hands. The front was blank, and as Jean flipped it over he saw there was no writing to speak of – not even his name. It was neatly sealed, not a single crease in sight, bar where he held it. The young man narrowed his eyes at Sasha,

"Is this…really a letter from Marco?"

The girl blanched noticeably.

"Are you kidding me? Of course it is! Why would I hunt you down to give you a fake letter?" She had sat back down on the loveseat, legs crossed and arms folded tightly.

Jean flipped the letter around again.

"I just honestly can't believe it – that's all." This entire situation was impossible. Jean himself had carried the casket back at the funeral, the fact that Marco was able to write him a letter –

"He wrote it before the crash obviously," Sasha's eyes drifted downwards, "I was told to give it to you just in case…anything happened to him. Which, of course…well, you know."

The letter only got heavier to hold with every word that slipped out of her mouth. Sasha's fingers had trembled slightly when she had handed the envelope over to Jean, and now she had uncrossed her arms to let those same fingers fidget in her lap. There could only be so many things this letter could say – the two boys had been friends since they were so young, the possibilities of it containing something Jean didn't already know seemed absurd. Why had Marco actually written him the letter beforehand, what was it that he couldn't have told Jean? Obviously Sasha was aware of what it said to some degree, and that only made the pit at the bottom of the young mans stomach dig itself deeper.

Keeping his eyes locked on the envelope, Jean hastily ripped the seal, trying to be mindful, but ultimately shredding the entire damn thing. The paper itself was folded just as carefully as the envelope was sealed, and Jean slowly parted its edges, opening the pages up in their full splendor. Immediately he recognized the handwriting – if this really was all a ruse, the girl was damn good at forging a signature. Careful, curved letters looped across the page in blue ink and Jean suddenly felt a nauseating, warm, pricking sensation creep up his spine to the nape of his neck.

"You don't have to read it now, though I'm sure you want to – if you would like to be alone, I'll leave," Sasha stood up and began to walk by the couch, but Jean lashed out and caught the hem of her shirt.

"Can you just…do you mind staying? Just while I read." His other hand clenched the letter tighter, crumpling the paper slightly.

Sasha really didn't know how to go about this. Granted, she thought she was rather good at consoling people, but she had faced these demons already – she had read her 'letter', so to speak. She had talked to Marco during his diagnosis and she had sat with him in the hospital during all of those hours. This wasn't her place – Jean wasn't her friend, and she wasn't his. Sasha could feel the heat from his fingers as they clutched at her shirt, right by the swell of her hip…how could she just leave him to fend for his own through the truth? At least when things had gone awry for her, Sasha had her father. Despite the little comfort he had given, it was still comfort nonetheless.

Sitting back down on the loveseat once Jean retracted his hand, she watched the young man balance his elbows on his kneecaps, the letter perched in front of his slumped body. The further and further his eyes traveled, the more his spine bent forward. In the distance, Sasha could her the toning of the grandfather clock in her room, a countdown clanging in her ears.

.

Back when she had first met Marco, they had bonded deeply over their love for antiques – things that nobody else wanted. The first time Marco had brought her into the city in early April, the two had stumbled across a large, nameless consignment store. Originally it had been the ornate lamps and white wicker rocking chairs enticing the duo from beyond windows, but they soon found themselves spending nearly forty minutes just combing through the store's assorted trinkets.

In the back had been the clock. It had taken the two friends all of thirty minutes to come across it after sorting through old cassette tapes and china glass figurines, but you couldn't miss the thing. In a sea of cobwebs and dust motes, the clock stood tall and grand, majestic in its slumber.

"Wow," Marco breathed, staring up at it's rust-spotted face, his dark eyes gleaming, "it's positively glorious."

Sasha nodded eagerly in response, "If I lived in the city, I would buy it – hands down no questions asked." True enough, its dark, polished wood glinted against the shops fluorescent lights, casting a haunting glow. The pendulum inside spun excitedly, winking mischievously. It was all almost hypnotizing.

"I live in the city and I can't even buy it, Sash," the young man fingered the clock's smooth, spiraled edges, his brows creased, "no way I could afford it now."

Hospital bills. Treatments. Marco didn't need physical therapy just yet, but he was going to have to start it eventually. It had all seemed so daunting back then, so crippling and it was only just the beginning of the roller coaster.

"C'mon," Sasha said, looping her arm through his, "I wanted to treat you to lunch while we were here anyway, and I'm in the mood for a cheeseburger. Direct me to the best place, I demand it."

Marco smiled down at her kindly, knowing better than to object. They'd known each other for close to three months now, and there was no use fighting with Sasha – you'd never win, no matter what cards you played. Even if you cheated in the game, Sasha just cheated better.

In keeping to her fine form, and reputation, Sasha had gone back to the consignment store the next day to put her first installment down on the clock.

.

Twelve minutes seemed like twelve hours. When Jean finally looked up from the letter, Sasha had polished off two glasses of wine and was now biting her nails fiercely. She looked back over at him, eyebrows creased, and he felt she was just waiting for him to say something. To react, to cry again like he had before. A beat passed, and then two, and Sasha found herself absentmindedly stroking her pants legs, only to begin biting the nails again after the silence got too loud.

"You shouldn't bite your nails, that's a nasty habit." Jean folded the paper into a square, only to tuck it into the pocket of his pants.

"Is…that all you've got to say?" Sasha blabbered, her hands falling back down on to her lap.

Jean grabbed his wine glass and chugged its remnants down before pouring what was left of the bottle into his glass – which admittedly wasn't that much. Taking another sip, their eyes locked and Jean shrugged.

"What do you want me to say?" Another sip before placing the glass back down, "He was sick. He didn't get to tell me, and he died. That's all."

"What did the letter say?"

"You didn't read it?"

"Hell no!" Sasha jumped to her feet, "I respect…respected…Marco."

Jean just stared.

"He wrote me a letter." The girl sat back down, feeling small under Jean's glare, "I just…I'm curious as to what he told you in yours."

"Really? He wrote you a letter?" Sasha nodded and Jean held his head in his hands, running his fingers violently through his tawny hair, "I just don't fucking get it. He met you in the hospital, right?"

"My mom was in the middle of chemo," she breathed, "Marco had…he just had learned of his own diagnosis when we met. I was crying by the stupid vending machines, and he held my hand without even asking."

Jeans shoulders shook as he inhaled and exhaled, trying to focus on anything but the lump in his own throat. Of course Marco did. Of course he held her hand – because that was just the person Marco was. Diagnosed with a terminal disease and he held someone else's hand instead. He probably let her cry on his shoulder for all Jean figured - probably didn't even tell her about how sick he was, just let her get it all out.

Sasha moved between Jean and the coffee table, shoving his bowl and wine glass back enough to make room for her to sit. Grasping his hands, she brought them away from his face, pulling them down and keeping them held in hers. Despite the difference in size, Jean didn't pull away this time, and let her cradle his hands gently . He could see the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose they were so close. The young man kept his gaze downcast, looking anywhere but her eyes and their linking hands.

"I always end up like this," He finally spoke, the lump in this throat prominent, "you comforting me."

"Marco did the same to me. It's only right I return the favor." Jean's hands weren't soft, but they were warm next to her freezing ones, and while Sasha wasn't Marco, when he had held hers it made her feel much safer – safer than any hug ever could.

"What did Marco's letter to you say?" Jean kept his eyes focused on the worn areas of her pants, memorizing the way the fabric strained against the curve of her knees. It was only fair he heard her side after hearing Marco's.

Sasha's fingers tensed visibly as they circled his. Her hands were cold, and instead Jean decidedly switched their roles, cupping hers in his, encircling the digits, trying to warm them as she spoke to him. It was a light offering of kindness, but any offering of kindness from Jean was well rewarded.

"He had told me the majority of what had to be said. We obviously didn't expect that car crash to come, hell, we knew his diagnosis was a bad one but he knew he had time left…time he intended to spend with you, and me, and everyone else." The hospital sucked. It smelled like bleach, blood, and sterilized instruments. Sasha fucking hated the hospital and she hated it with a passion even more as the treatments took larger tolls on her mother and as Marco began to struggle with the reality of his condition.

"In his letter, though," Sasha gulped and looked over to Jean who was now transfixed on her, waiting unabashedly on every word that slipped from her lips. His eyes made her feel uneasy – they were narrow and glinted no matter how little light there was. They always made her feel she had to choose just the right words in order not to anger him, "Marco told me a few things he wanted done. You'll notice that your letter – it was something he planned on giving you while he was still alive. It was to explain what he had and why he had it. We wrote one together at first, but then I think he needed to write one alone to you. He knew how you ticked."

Jean licked his lips, still waiting.

"My letter, however, was to be opened if, when, he died," Sasha began to feel hot and claustrophobic, despite them being the only two in the room, "Marco had wanted me to tell you a few things – he had asked me to come find you if we hadn't been able to meet yet. It was more or less a bunch of last requests, in a way. Find you, tell you what I had to tell you, and make sure you were okay. He was…worried about you. I think that's why he was scared for you to know – he didn't want you to worry."

"So, what did he want you to tell me?"

Sasha didn't want to say it. She didn't want to tell Jean what Marco had asked, even if it was a last request. Jean, who for once was being extremely kind. Jean, who was actually holding her hands, waiting for her to tell him something nice. Something about how Marco missed him, how Marco would always be there for him.

She bit her lip. She had to honor what Marco wanted, but it just wasn't her place to tell. Who could tell, though? Marco was dead. He was dead. His spirit could come and haunt her for the rest of her days but he couldn't tell Jean what he really had wanted him to know for so long. Sasha didn't really know how Marco had planned this all out – if he had even known he was going to get into that accident. She remembered the call so vividly, every detail. It was early in the morning, around 5:00 am on the west coast, and Marco's mom had found a box of his things – one of those things being Sasha's number.

Jean's grip on her hands tightened as he clutched them harder, encouraging her to go forward.

"Sasha. What did he want you to tell me?"

His anger was rising, but Sasha couldn't bring herself to do it.

"Sasha, please," Jean begged, shaking her hands, "tell me what it was. I promise I won't get mad. I promise, I swear, just let me know."

Everything was so complicated.

"Let me get mine," she stood up, lifting her hands out of his grip. It took a few moments, but she returned momentarily with her own letter, this one crumpled softly and several pages thicker than Jean's own. As she sat, she made sure that Jean couldn't peer over and read anything written on those pieces of paper. Shuffling through, she got to the last page in the stack before she actually spoke.

"Twelve," Sasha began, skipping ahead of the earlier numbers, "'I want you and Jean to be friends. He's a difficult person – I know that better than anyone else, but despite his difficulty I am so happy that I kept him in my life. I'm thankful every day for Jean. He has taught me more about myself than anyone else, and his friendship is more genuine than any other I could ask for. You two need each other. Go find him – '" the girl paused, swallowing hard, "'and when you find him – if you two don't know each other already, that is – please get along with him, or at least try. You two will be great friends as long as you don't let your egos knock each other out. And when you find him, because I know you will – that's just who you are, please tell him something. It's very important, and I hope you understand that when you tell him he may not react the way you expected him to. Jean never does."

The words were hanging, and they both knew what was coming next. Sasha didn't even have to say it, but Jean still watched her expectantly. The room grew smaller.

"'Tell Jean that I love him. That I've – '" the girls voice broke, "'I've always loved him. Every part of him is a breathing, beating part of me. Leaving him behind is the hardest thing I will ever have to do. Please let Jean know that nothing in this world brought me greater happiness than he did. You know that, Sasha. You know that I was in love with him from the beginning, and thank-you for never expecting me to say it out loud. You accepted me in the same way Jean always has, and that's why I need you two to be there for one another.'"

Her hands were shaking and she couldn't help it. They were obvious facts but nobody could say them other than Marco – they were what you knew, but never wanted to acknowledge because they honestly didn't need acknowledging. In the end, it was what it was and those words were what they were. Once they were out in the open, you couldn't take them back. You couldn't try and catch them again to swallow, not even if you tried. How had it not been obvious to Jean, though? The way Marco spoke about him to Sasha – the way Marco described the white scar above Jean's left eyebrow, the way he laughed at the creases between the man's top and bottom lip, how his ears burned when he was embarrassed and how his dramatic overreactions were one for the books. Surely Jean knew – surely Jean had an inkling of suspicion, because Sasha almost laughed out of predictability most days when Marco approached her, a new Jean story waiting.

They both sat there, facing each other, Sasha holding her letter and Jean holding his tongue. What could you say to a dead declaration of love?

"I should go," Jean stood up, walking over to the coat closet to begin dressing for the walk back.

Sasha wanted to fight him. 'That's all you have to say?' she wanted to scream. Instead, the girl began to clear the coffee table. She didn't have the energy to fight and she had done what she had been instructed to do. She walked into the kitchen with her tray, soaping water and scrubbing away the drying food. Marco was right - Jean hadn't reacted the way that she had expected of him.

"Goodnight, Sasha." Jean called from the doorway minutes later, and the girl emerged from the kitchen clutching a towel as she dried a bowl.

"Goodnight, Jean." she considered going over and grabbing his hand again, but again couldn't bring herself to do more than just what she was doing.

"Thank-you for dinner. It was very good."

"You're very welcome. Thank-you for coming."

Jean's hand was on the door knob, but instead he turned back to her and walked through the few feet of space between them. His hands were heavy on her shoulders, but his lips were soft as they pressed against the bangs on her forehead.

Then, he was gone. Door shut, footsteps beating down the hallway like an erratic heartbeat.

Sasha pitched the bowl against the door, and watched as it exploded into a handful of large, ceramic pieces.

.

**Notes:**

OH SHIT. I'm actually really proud of this chapter. It took me a while to get everything in order, so I hope it makes sense. Two quick things – I do have the disease Marco had all planned out, I just didn't want to introduce it yet. I also have already typed up Marco's letters – both to Jean and to Sasha, so I swear I wasn't trying to cop-out by not including them!

Review, favourite, follow, whatever you feel! Thanks again for reading!

xx


	5. Chapter 5

**HI I'M SORRY THIS IS SO LATE.**

Thank-you all for the wonderful reviews and messages! I appreciate it so much. :)

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**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. Shingeki no Kyojin is the sole intellectual property of Hajime Isayama.

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The first snowfall came the day after Thanksgiving. There had been light flurries weeks before but in the early hours of morning, before the sun had even stirred, Jean awoke to opaque windows and a knowing chill ghosting through his bedroom. He hadn't spoken to Sasha, naturally, since the dinner and the letter. Unlike the business card she had given him, the letter sat to his right on his bedside table, folded just as neatly as it had come. Jean would lay the blasted thing out every now and again to read and reread the words Marco had left him. 'Hutchinson's' he understood, was genetic. At least that's what all of the online news journals had told him…so if it was genetic, how had Jean never heard of Marco's parents having it? How had Marco just blatantly forgotten to tell him? It wasn't necessarily fatal, just…disorienting. It wasn't as if he had died from it, he had died from a stupid car crash…

Sasha had left him messages. Not always on his cell phone (who knew how she had gotten his number), mostly at his office. Every day he entered his cubicle, there was a post-it note waiting for him on his desktop's monitor:

**CALL SASHA BRAUS: - 624-5089 URGENT!**

Jean didn't know who was leaving the post-its – he assumed it was one of his co-workers who had the misfortune of interacting with the girl when she called or stopped by hungrily searching for him. Thank god she didn't know where he lived, or else he may have to file a restraining order – he had heard the shatter as he left, and he knew he was a coward. This wasn't something, though, that he was particularly used to, not at all. This entire year had been a mess, and it left the young man impossibly wrecked. This wasn't the Jean that everyone knew, even if he had fallen off the grid for a bit to focus on his goals – the old Jean was deep down in there somewhere, but he was still too tired to come out.

Hauling himself out from the delicious warmth of his covers, the young man turned off his still silent alarm. He still technically had another three hours of sleep to catch, but sleep rarely came easy. Plus, he was up. That meant time to get his shit in order, shower, and maybe even edit some photos. It was finally Friday and in his books, that meant that the work week was over – it was especially exciting since they had been given the majority of Thanksgiving off, and while Jean's Thanksgiving had revolved around Thai take-out and lame action movies, it was still nice to retreat back to his cave of an apartment for a few extra hours. Truth be told that since the letter and since the weather had gone from chilly to positively frostbitten, Jean rarely went out any more, if at all. His coworkers still invited him out from time to time, but the seclusion was easier to control. If he drank, he was sure he'd break down, and nobody who has a career like his has time for a break down.

.

"Jean!" The young man's name was punctuated by a large slap on his shoulder, "brilliant reporting there! Absolutely loved your shots, especially the one of the, uh, the…the big thing, with the lights."

Jean groaned.

"Do you mean the theater?"

"Yes! The theater!" Hanji Zoe began to laugh at herself, clutching at Jean's shoulder still. A senior reporter and also Jean's primary editor (just below their boss, that is), Hanji was definitely an eccentric character – but at least she always really appreciated what Jean submitted. Not a moment went by that she didn't stop by to let her little writer's know how good they were, and it seemed like today she was even more chipper than usual.

Jean's latest piece, an online article following the soon-to-be local opening of Tchaikovsky's _The Nut Cracker_, really wasn't all that special. A few embellished words, a couple glossy photos of the performers at practice, no biggie – but Hanji always made sure to express how much she was proud of all of her writers, especially her 'photojournalist prodigy'. Offering a half-smile of gratitude, Jean turned back to grimace at his computer's monitor, clicking through e-mails. Hanji must have been satisfied with that, as she promptly continued on her rampage of praise, clamping down her hand on other journalist's backs. Hanji hadn't been at work yesterday, so it was only natural that she was making her rounds this morning – it was sort of her way of checking to make sure everyone had come back to work after the holiday, despite it being Black Friday.

"You got another message," A figure sidled up to Jean, offering a small, yellow paper stuck to their index finger. "Please tell me you've called this fucking girl back before I do it for you. I don't know why she hasn't given up, but obviously you gave her a damn good dicking – I'd just get it over with."

"Ymir, fuck off," Jean didn't reach for the post-it, instead nodding towards the small plastic trash bin that rested off to the side of his desk, "I want to hurry and arrange some interviews before I have to go on location again."

The girl leaned against his desk, her lanky body dwarfing him easily.

"I don't even get it," Ymir plucked the post-it note off of her finger, studying the words, "She obviously knows you work here – she has the office's number. Hell, she could come in right now and try to talk to you."

"She knows I'd have her escorted out," Jean kept typing, hitting the keys furiously.

"Pff, yeah, right, by who? Levi? Armin? Don't make me piss myself," the young girl balled up the post-it note finally, tossing it at Jean. When he didn't react, she sighed. "Fine. Don't call her back, but I'm sure everyone's getting sick of taking these dumb messages for you. I bet if you just bit the bullet it wouldn't be so bad."

The stupid girl didn't even know the tip of the iceberg. Nobody did, or seemed to, at least, and while Jean felt bad that they must be all taking these notes for him, he still wasn't ready to chase back after Sasha and own up. Sooner or later she'd stop, and things would hopefully return back to normal.

After an awkwardly silent exchange, Ymir cleared her throat.

"All right, well, good chat Kirschtein," she lifted herself back upright, "by the way, we're all going to the pub tonight. You really should come out – none of us have really seen you outside of work, and honestly you're looking pretty beat up. What happened sucked but, y'know, shit gets better."

Ymir walked away. Jean could hear the soft heel of her boots, clicking from carpet to linoleum as she stepped outside of their building, probably for a cigarette. He had paused between e-mails, her words hanging densely in the air. Jean Kirschtein might have been a bit of a hermit, but he certainly wasn't looking THAT bad lately, was he? Slamming his chair back, the young man raced to the bathroom, locking the door behind him in the single-person restroom.

The mirror wasn't anything special, an elongated oval number that definitely made Jean look paler than what he was underneath the fluorescent lighting – he had always been pallid but this just made him look sickly. The young man began to stroke his face. When was the last time he shaved? His lips were definitely beginning to chap, his normally piercing eyes had bags, and the last time he got a hair cut was an embarrassingly long time ago, so long ago that the front was just beginning to fall in front of his eyes. Fuck. He used to actually care about his appearance! Who the fuck was this? Forget stubble, this shit was beginning to build – he didn't even know he could grow a beard without patches, let alone become the doppelganger to one of those assholes on National Geographic that filmed bears in Alaska.

Did he even own a razor any more? Fuck. Probably not. He definitely had an electric buzzer though…right? The young man ran some water from the sink's faucet, splashing it onto his face. The bags he couldn't help, but everything else could be easily remedied with a trip to the pharmacy he mused. Ugh. He really hated that Ymir was right. She had graduated high school with Jean, Marco and Connie, but during those years the girl rarely had offered much to the conversation other than sarcastic, back-handed remarks. When Jean had begun working at the paper, Ymir was an intern and working as a bartender at the Wayward Pub. Her sarcasm had only amplified, but it was now very docile – she only used it when she needed it – and she had gotten quite talkative since they moved her up as a crime reporter. When Marco died she and their coworker, Armin, had been the two constantly pushing Jean to go out more, but both had almost given up.

Okay. This was it. This was obviously Ymir's backward attempt at trying to shed some light on how far down the stupid rabbit hole Jean had fallen. Plus, going out to the pub couldn't really be that bad. He'd have a few drinks, talk to a few people, leave a bit early and crash happy and warm in his bed. Piece of cake.

.

"Eren and Mikasa are supposed to come," Armin checked his watch, adjusting the face underneath the dimmed pub lights, "they said they were bringing their roommate, but I've never met the person."

Ymir slammed down her beer onto the polished wood table. Luckily she had downed the majority of it, so not much foam bubbled up.

"Ugh whatever, they're always late when they come out," she took a last few remaining chugs left in the bottle and stood up, "anyone wanna do some shots? They just got some of the new honey whiskey in, I hear it goes down super smooth."

Jean grunted an indiscernible word, but that was good enough for Ymir. Armin's objections were lost within the sea of people that Ymir parted.

"So, how have things been Jean?" Armin was too nice – his eyes were wide and a pale sky blue, and they almost frightened Jean, he was constantly averting his gaze away from the young man's.

"Decent, no complaints," Jean's face felt naked. He had shaved after work and every area on his face sans his side burns was freezing. He wanted to apply more chapstick, but his lips were already generously coated with the stuff. For all he knew, he looked like he was wearing dark lipstick.

"The service was really nice," Armin cleared his throat, taking a sip of his beer, "did you make it to the wake afterwards?"

"Yes," Jean lied, "it was really…serene. Really simple. Marco would have enjoyed it a lot." God this was awkward. Where was Ymir? Jean was only two beers in and while he hadn't wanted to get drunk, the buzz was humming in his veins and he wanted more.

"I figure things have been rough, and I know we talked about this before, but I want to extend a hand out to you again – if you ever need something, please let me know." Armin looked as if he was hesitating, his hand raised slightly above the table. Jean really didn't mean to come off as so abrasive, especially when the guy was really just trying to be a friend, but much like the other times Jean wasn't ready – as always.

"Yeah, things have been rough," he finally spoke clutching his beer bottle, "but I guess they're getting easier. I think it was just really alien to me at first, losing a childhood best friend and all." The young man began to tap his finger against the bottle's neck, the light ringing noise swallowed up by crowds as they pushed their bodies further and further away from the snow. Jean cleared his throat, "Thanks. By the way. It's always good to know there's someone around to talk to."

"Not a problem at all!" Armin's face lit up, every crease and corner suddenly alive, "I know how rough it is losing someone you love. I mean…everyone says they know, it's cliché, but there's some truth within it all."

'_Except you never got a letter,_' Jean mused, polishing off the last of his beer. "

"So. This roommate. You've never met him or her?"

"Nah, I believe it's a 'her' though. She moved into the room next to Mikasa's, apparently she's been there for a few months. Apparently she cooks, cleans, and keeps to herself a lot, so they really don't mind at all – they've all been getting along just fine."

Get along. Now there was a statement never associated with Mikasa and Eren on any level. The only person who 'got along' with those two seemed to be Armin, but honestly Jean didn't know much of their friendship outside of when they all hung out at the bar together – he knew that they had all gone to high school and college together – much like him, Marco, and Connie – but really other than that he was at a loss. Mikasa was too quiet, albeit absolutely stunning, and Eren was too loud, and an insufferable asshole.

"Sorry we're late," right on the money Eren appeared, slamming a rather large bottle down on the table, Mikasa at his side untangling herself from her scarf, "stopped by the liquor store. Didn't want to buy anything from the bar." His eyes drifted over to Jean and widened.

"Jean! We heard you were finally coming out with us! That's great, glad to have you back after everything."

"Thanks," Jean stood up and pushed his chair back, "I'm going to grab a beer, you want another Armin?" The young man nodded and began fishing around his pockets until Jean held up a hand.

"Where's Ymir?" He heard Eren demand, right before he collided with another solid body.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," it was a young girl's voice, but Jean was momentarily blinded as he tried to wipe the foamy beer from out of his eyes. What the fuck?!

"The fuck?!" he angrily rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, beer trickling down his jaw and neck into his shirt, "Seriously, I know it's crowded but watch where you're going!"

"I was pushed! It's not my fault, I swear, let me – " the girl paused. "…Jean?"

Oh fuck. Not again.

"Jean, I am so sorry! Hold on let me get some napkins, wait right here."

NOPE. Not waiting, running, that was much better. Jean wiped the last bit of beer away and turned around, speed walking through the throng of people back to the table. Naturally the first time he came out since that night was when he would see her, and it was so obvious that he was ignoring her – it had been a month, maybe even longer.

"Jeez Jean, where the fuck have you been? Take your shot." Ymir shoved the shot over to Jean as he sat, and he immediately chugged it down, refusing to criticize Ymir that she had been the one gone for nearly twenty minutes.

"Oh awesome, Sasha's here!" Eren was waving her over. Why the fuck was Eren waving her over?

Oh. Right. It was just that fucking obvious.

"Are you fucking KIDDING me?" Jean hissed through his teeth. Eren turned around, his expression perplexed.

"Who pissed in your whiskey?" Eren demanded, and in return Jean slammed his head back onto the table.

"Hey everyone!" That goddamn voice. Jean should have known from the moment he sat down at this table when they first arrived that the stupid roommate was Sasha. He should have guessed it from the get go. Armin had definitely mentioned that address before in passing when he invited Jean to Eren and Mikasa's Halloween party, but Jean still was on cruise control.

"This is Sasha," Eren introduced the girl, and as Jean looked up from the table he noticed she was actually dressed rather nicely – maybe even attractive. A large, burgundy knit sweater, a black skirt, and sheer black tights, and her hair was tied to the side of her face in a long, messy braid – for once she didn't look like she had been in a kitchen all day or crying.

Everyone, in turn, greeted her and smiled as she sat, asking her about what she did and where she was from, but Jean stayed silent. It was only until Ymir, sitting across from him, noticed his uneasiness and it all came together.

"She's the Sasha. She's the fucking Sasha," the girl hissed, batting at Jean's arms, "are you fucking kidding me?"

Jean nodded somberly.

Truth be told, it wasn't that he necessarily hated Sasha – at the end of it all, he really…actually enjoyed the girls company. But when you read a secret to someone, a secret that big, in the way that she had…Jean was so uncomfortable. What the fuck was he supposed to say? Marco loved him, yeah, whatever. He knew that. Did he love Marco? Who the fuck cares. Maybe he had at one point after too many shots of tequila, maybe he had the night in college that he had kissed him goodnight as they parted ways after the annual toga party. Everything was too little too late, and it wasn't like Marco was there waiting for an answer. Jean needed answers too, even if he kept running away from the girl who could give him them.

"I'm getting us more shots," Ymir sighed, turning back towards the rest of the table, "Anyone else want some shots?"

A resounding "YES!" rose up from the group and Jean couldn't tell if he wanted to throw up or chug fifty beers.

.

"Hey," her voice was gentle as usual, and Jean braced himself.

"Hi." He looked back over at her as she took Ymir's old seat across from her. They had just taken a few more shots and everyone had gotten up to start ordering a few more drinks, waiting in a bathroom line, interacting with bar patrons. The usual.

"I'm sorry for all of the notes," she folded her hands together, clutching the body of her beer bottle, "I really tried to not come off as crazy. I know that when we last talked that night, things got a little bit…heated."

"You threw something at me."

"I threw something at the _door_," Sasha corrected, "and can you blame me? You didn't even say anything. I told you this massive secret and you just left."

"Sasha, you – Marco – told me that he loved me. The fuck was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," she groaned, "I just…this is all really confusing. Marco wants us to be friends, and we can't be friends until you just accept what I told you and get over the fact that this is what Marco wanted."

Jean's eyes found hers and they held each other's gaze for a while.

"All of those post-its were weird."

"I know."

"The fact that you're Eren and Mikasa's roommate is weird."

"I know."

"Is there anything you don't know?"

"Well, you kissed my forehead when you left. That kind of took me off-guard, wasn't really expecting it." Sasha took a sip of her beer.

Jean flushed.

"Marco told you that I wasn't going to react the way you thought." Maybe it had been the wine that night, but Jean had the insufferable urge to kiss her forehead. He was impulsive, but it had been rather awkward, he had to admit, "I think that I just…was a bit overcome. It was a sort of unspoken thank-you. So…thank-you." He flushed even deeper, what number was this beer? How many shots had he consumed?

"Oh," her voice was soft. "You're welcome." She was stroking the condensation up and down the beer bottle. The only issue with all of this was, Sasha didn't want Jean to know – there were so many more things he needed to know. She wanted to tell him everything, but not at a bar, and definitely not if he was going to act the way he had before.

His vision began to blur. Jean felt so warm, everything was so soft. When was the last time he had drank this much?

"Do you…want to leave?" His question nearly knocked her on the floor.

"Ex-excuse me?" Sasha's hands left the bottle, laying flat on the table's top. Had she heard him correctly?

"Do you want to leave the bar? My apartment's a few blocks away. We can actually talk this time, and I promise I won't run away, as long as you promise not to throw anything at my head." Her look was quizzical, and Jean groaned loudly, "I mean it. I'm serious. Let's go and talk, and I won't mess things up by being me this time."

Sasha stood up immediately, her chair falling backwards and her beer following in suit as she scrambled to pick them both up, her knees buckling in excitement.

"Are you serious?" She turned to him again when everything was back up right, "For real?"

"For real."

.

**Notes**: I LEFT IT THERE BECAUSE I'M AN AWFUL PERSON HA I'M SO SORRY FORGIVE ME.

Next chapter will be out by Sunday, THIS I PROMISE YOU! Please don't hate me, I'm terribly sorry this took so long. I could bore you with a long-winded lie of an excuse, but honestly just some life things got in the way and, y'know, alcohol.

Oooh also, look at me incorporating other characters and Jean being all saucy! I think I need to rewatch the anime and reread the manga, I'm slowly losing Jean in his little sad-world-poor-me routine and it's not very becoming for a Scouting Legion babe such as himself.

Enjoy and thank-you so much for reading! Review if you'd like, you're all so wonderful!

xx


	6. Chapter 6

Ah! Another week flown by, another update to make. Aren't you guys proud of me? I'm sorry I'm giving so many filler chapters, but next chapter things are gonna get spicy.

.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. Shingeki no Kyojin is the sole intellectual property of Hajime Isayama.

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"Are you still waiting for that guy to call?"

Mikasa seemed to enjoy watching Sasha suffer. The poor girl was sitting patiently on their loveseat, staring at her cell phone, jumping in excitement whenever the thing vibrated. Every time Mikasa walked out in to the living room and saw Sasha sitting there, she would ask the same question, almost sadistically enjoying watching the young girl squirm. Honestly, if you asked Sasha to describe Mikasa in the few short months they had lived together, she wouldn't have hesitated to say, "Quiet. Intimidating. Hilarious." And truth be told, Mikasa was all of these things – but she could be frightening. 'Intimidating' only scratched the surface.

"He's going to call…I know he is."

Sasha had made a bowl of butternut squash soup earlier that day, but it sat heavy and untouched in her hands. In fact, Mikasa was sure that the girl hadn't eaten in almost two days.

"Sasha, you sound absolutely ridiculous. Just let it go."

But Mikasa didn't understand. How could someone who didn't know the situation realize what was happening? The girl had become a zombie, and her roommate was growing more and more worried as the days wore on. Sure, it was interesting to hear her different responses, but at the end of the day they had become close enough that Mikasa could begin to show slight concern.

"Sasha…" Mikasa had just come home from her last class – she was currently attempting to earn her doctorate in psychology and damn, was that shit getting rough – and had showered almost an hour ago, but her thick hair was still in a wet, dripping mess on top of her head, "is everything okay?"

Sasha never responded. Mikasa, in turn, slowly pivoted over to the loveseat, a bottle of beer in her hand. She would have asked Sasha if she wanted one, but Mikasa already knew what her answer would be.

"Are you pregnant?" Mikasa asked bluntly, taking a seat next to her roommate, watching as Sasha's shaky hands clutched her bowl.

"No. I'm not pregnant, I – "

"Sash. You haven't been sleeping, eating, or even showering properly. Something's going on and it's really beginning to alarm us."

'Us' meant her and Eren. Eren and her. Mikasa and Eren, Eren and Mikasa, forever a pair and forever sneaking into each other's rooms late at night to confirm any suspicions. Sasha didn't mind at all, on the contrary she supported it, but it became so draining when they refused to admit that they were anything more than just friends. Supportive, encouraging friends.

The door to their apartment swung open just as Sasha had put down her soup bowl.  
"Get dressed!" Eren announced, jade-green eyes glittering, "it's Friday and I want to get absolutely FUCKED out of my MIND."

.

Honestly, Sasha hadn't expected Jean to welcome her so warmly. Granted at first he spilled a drink on her and then completely ignored her existence for a good hour, the young man really must have been confused because he was now desperately searching in his coat pockets for his apartment keys. They had entered through the first door way and now he was growing frantic.

"There's no way I would have forgotten them," Jean groaned, his actions sloppy and numbed by the shots of whiskey they had taken moments prior, "I mean, I had to actually lock the apartment itself – "

Sasha leaned against the building's wall staring through the glass-paneled door at the stars– there was a homeless man asleep to the left of her boot but she didn't dare disturb him. The poor thing was probably fortunate to find an open doorway with heat; he didn't need to worry about being kicked out right now. Did she have any money? Yes – she must have had a fiver floating around her wallet. Withdrawing the bill, Sasha placed it in the mans dirty knapsack. It wasn't much, but it would matter. The smallest things always mattered to these people.

"God fucking _damnit_!" Jean gave up. Searching was fruitless – absolutely unnecessary –

Sasha turned to the young man and stuck her hand into his front denim pocket, withdrawing a cluster of clanging keys.  
"Are you searching for this? It definitely wasn't in your jacket."

Jean snatched the keys from her grasp.

"Thanks," he muttered, unlocking the door and allowing them full access into the building. Sasha whistled, taking it all in

"Jeez. This has to be one expensive place to live."

And maybe it was – maybe it was expensive. Jean saw the look people got when he mentioned his apartment's address – a single room, no roommate, and on top of (very nice) Thai restaurant. Wasn't that just the luck of the draw?

"It costs a pretty penny." Jean breathed, trudging up the steps with the young woman in tow. Why had he invited her back here with him?

Oh. The letter. Right.

"I'm on the third floor," he breathed, already beginning to gasp for air, "sorry about the climb."

Sasha didn't mind. She came from Northern California – it was definitely not flat around those parts.

Wordlessly, the two continued to walk until Jean fumbled for his keys again, unlocking the apartment's main latch. Inside, Sasha wasn't surprised by his apartment at all – a kitchen, a desk, a few scattered Ikea tables and a doorway that led to a bedroom. The walls were a light, pale blue, and the lamps he had on the tables cast a warm, soft yellow glow. The apartment had a sweet, homey atmosphere for being so far into the downtown area.

"You've got a really nice place here, Jean."

He didn't even look surprised at her compliment.

"Thank-you."

They stood their, quiet, until Jean reached over and grabbed the girls hand, pulling her in closer to him and the entrance to the bedroom.

"Jean, I – "

"Shut up."

He led Sasha over into the threshold of his room, bringing her to the edge of his bed and motioning for the girl to sit down. Before he joined her, Jean walked over and retrieved his letter, finally settling beside her on the bed.

"I think I owe you an apology."

"You already said you were sorry, it's – "

"No. I owe you a real apology."

Sasha looked at the young man; his eyes were akin to melted brown sugar, illuminated by the flecks of light that radiated from his lamp. The girl waited patiently for the apology.

"I am sorry, because…I meant to talk to you about the letter. You told me something really important, and I know you didn't want to have that burden, but you loved Marco, too. You loved him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I made you spill that secret to me – even if Marco asked you to, even if you didn't mind doing it, it's not your story to tell, and I understand your uneasiness."

Sasha opened her mouth but Jean held up a hand.

"I think that…it wasn't that the confession shocked me. I loved Marco…I don't know in which way. I probably never will, but I miss him every day. It hurts so much Sasha, it hurts so much and I don't know where to go or what to do. What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

Before he realized what had happened, Sasha had pulled his body to hers, her arms around his broad shoulders and her head resting in the crook of his neck.

"I know. I feel it, too."

Jean wasn't one to hug. They had held hands back all those months ago, but this hug wasn't the same. Holding hands was a special kind of comfort, and this hug was a different one entirely. It wasn't a gesture asking him to share his story with her; it was a hug that said she understood his story, that she understood the pain. The letter forgotten for a moment, it crumpled between their bodies. Neither moved, just holding each other with so many unspoken words.

Jean finally pulled away, remembering that the letter was still between them. He picked it up from his lap and smoothed it out against his thighs.

"You mentioned that Marco gave you a list of requests, right?"

Sasha nodded, her arms that were now back against her sides felt restless and uneasy. She wanted to hug him again. She wanted to be so close to someone and so safe – it was hard to be such an open and friendly person, but to lack the actual touch of a friend. Marco had been there for her, and now it just…felt so foreign and wonderful all at once to have physical contact with someone.

"What…were some of the requests? Other than the obvious one."

Sasha paused, her thoughts racing at a ridiculous speed. Yes, there had been a list, and yes, there had been the obvious confession of love as well as the promise that she and Jean would be friends in the absence of Marco.

"He had wanted me to find his parents and give them a letter. I know he was still in contact with them and obviously they knew about Hutchinson's, but…I don't think Marco ever made peace with them not telling him what he needed to know."

Parents were a fickle thing, that much Jean understood.

"There were other odds and ends," Sasha stared down at her lap, running her hands up and down her clothed thighs, "small things that he had asked, last requests…"

She didn't want to make this about her, but it had been a request of Marco's – one that he had spoken to her about quite frequently. Marco had been her only friend who knew, who understood, the purpose that Sasha had, the drive that she needed.

No. It wasn't the right time. She couldn't tell him now, not yet. Her mind was swimming and all she wanted was to sleep.

Jean must have noticed her visible exhaustion. Extending a hand, he cupped her cheek and she leaned into the pad of his palm.

"May I – "

"Yes. You may."

Jean stood up and walked over, grabbing a pillow and pushing the covers of his bed back before walking back out towards his living room.

"You can sleep in my bed."

"I don't mind sleeping on the couch – "

"Sasha. You can sleep in my bed. I still have work to do – I'm not going to sleep any time soon. I don't mind the couch."

Then he left. Just like that, Jean moved to the kitchen and Sasha heard a shift of material, a laptop booting up, and that was that. Had she been a brave person, Sasha would have asked Jean to please share the bed with her. Not have sex, nothing like that, but just to have another body next to hers was something she missed deeply and drastically. The need for someone's physical touch, the craving, was so great and so desperate that she nearly choked as it bubbled up in her throat.

No. She was a brave person.

Standing up, Sasha moved to the doorway that currently separated their two worlds.

"Jean."

He was sitting on his couch; the all-too bright light from his laptop screen illuminated his face in a phantasmal shadow. There was a large Canon camera next to him, a USB drive plugged in alongside a large assortment of memory chips.

When she said his name, he looked up, his eyes squinting at her.

"When you're done with your work, could you…" Sasha suddenly felt so small, what happened to that bravery she had? "You can…I wouldn't mind it if you slept in the bed. I can keep to one side and you can keep to yours, but just…just having a body there would be really nice."

Jean quirked an eyebrow. So…she didn't want them to necessarily sleep together, in the sense of not sleeping at all, but for them to share a space and sleep there together?

Jean enjoyed his space – he enjoyed his privacy – but for whatever reason, he nodded. Maybe it was her hair, still in that low, messy braid, or the way the light cast shadows on her face and silhouette so softly that Jean was sure she wasn't real.

"Okay." He lowered the screen of his laptop slightly, "I'll come there when I'm done with what I need to do here."

Sasha looked relieved. More than relieved, she looked absolutely grateful, possibly even happy. A large smile stretched across her face.

"Do you…could I borrow something to sleep in?"

Oh. He hadn't even thought of that. They definitely had just come from the bar and there was no way Sasha had known that the night was going to end up like this. Surely in the back of one of his drawers he had a shirt from college that would do.

"My top drawer, there are a few old t-shirts. Just grab one, doesn't matter which – they're all rather big so I'm sure something will fit you."

Sasha nodded, disappearing from the doorway; Jean left staring at the vacant space she once occupied. There had been a final request, one at the end of Marco's letter to him. He understood that there had been much thought put into Sasha's letter especially, considering that Marco had included a list of numbers and secrets. However, at the end of his letter to Jean, Marco had included one last thing, and it made Jean extremely worried. Not so much that it was impossible mind you, but because it was a horrifying thing to consider.

After he finished editing the photos, Jean finally found himself shuffling towards his bed. Sasha lay, lightly snoozing, against his sheets, her arm outstretched in front of her as if she was grasping for something. Regardless, Jean changed out of his pants, removing his heavy layers, and got ready to slide into bed besides the girl. Parting the covers slowly, Jean slid underneath them, enjoying the weight on top of his form.

Sasha snoozed in front of his life of vision, her mouth slightly ajar and her fingers clutched around his bed sheets.

Honestly, he had hoped she was going to spend the night in his bed with him. Sleeping next to another body was something that he had missed, but refused to admit that he missed. Slowly, he plucked Sasha's hand away from the bed sheets and tucked it back into her chest. Instead of obeying, Sasha turned around, her back facing Jean as he lay in the bed. Deep down, he wanted her to turn around and face him – to reach out for his touch, beg for his grasp, but instead she kept to herself, a drawn-in cocoon of a human being. Sasha slept soundlessly, and Jean stayed awake staring at the slop of her body.

.

**Notes**: Expect the next chapter within a week. :)


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